


Pocket Collections

by Misterghostfrog



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misc - Freeform, Poor Life Choices, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, as taken from the tags in the first one: oh my god they're in love and don't even know it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misterghostfrog/pseuds/Misterghostfrog
Summary: Ficlets from my tumblr (probably slightly edited for quality) Individual warnings in notes of each chapter! Some of these contain spoilers, that'll also be in the notes!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. The one where Martin's tired

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings come to mind for this one. Spoilers and canon divergence from MAG 22 (Colony)
> 
> this came from the 'things you said' prompt list on tumblr. Send by @Peachyindeed it's number 3!
> 
> 3\. Things you said too quietly.
> 
> (Set in a universe where Martin stays with Jon instead of in the archives!)

Martin wakes with a jolt to the sound of the front door opening.

His eyes fly open and he lays deathly still. Gaze darting around the suddenly unfamiliar room. 

The door- it was locked. Prentiss- does she know how to pick locks, can worms pick locks?

This isn't his livingroom.

He’s laying down, he can make out a coffee table, covered in various items that are too blurred without his glasses to see in the dim light from the TV screen. Darkened by the popup asking if he’s still watching. 

He takes a deep breath.

He has power, the lights are not out, he is not in his flat. That was not Jane Prentiss. He’s on a couch- Jon’s couch. He remembers now. He’s on Jon’s couch. He’s in Jon’s flat, on Jon’s couch, and Jon’s…

There is the soft sound of a closet door opening, then closing, and the quiet shuffle of socked feet across the floor.

He relaxes. 

Jon is awful about late nights. He keeps telling Martin he goes in early in an effort to leave on time, and perhaps that might be true. But the man has the time-telling capabilities of a cardboard watch. And once he does come home Martin swears he spends more time puttering around the flat than actually sleeping. So the sound of Jon shuffling around at all hours has become something of the norm. It’s actually rather comforting, Martin’s decided. To have someone so close by. It makes the fear of the whole situation feel just a little bit further away.

Martin closes his eyes, letting himself sink back into the comforter. Jon's couch is much nicer than his, quite livable really. That combined with the soft sounds of Jons nightly wanderings, he finds himself drifting. 

He sighs.

The shuffling pauses, and he hears Jon's voice. Soft and muddled, he can’t make out the words. The corner of Martins mouth twitches up slightly at the sound.

Jon talks to himself sometimes, another one of his odd little habits that Martin can’t help but find a little endearing. Against his better judgement.

The shuffling starts again, and Martin allows himself to be lulled by the sound. He wonders vaguely what time it is, how many hours of sleep Jon is going to stumble into tonight.

He hears Jon's voice again, still too quiet to decipher. But definitely closer as something brushes the side of his head.

“Mmh?” Martin humms. Blinking his eyes open and turning towards the voice. He can make out Jon's shape, lit gently by the greyish TV light. He’s leaning over the back of the couch around Martins head, his hand suspended in the air between them, somewhere above Martins head. His face is the picture of shock to a degree Martin might find funny if he was more awake. Martin blinks fuzzily at him. “Wh’’d you say?” he slurs eloquently. Far to sleep-muddled to care.

Jon gapes at him for a moment, flexing his fingers absently. Before pulling his hand back and schooling his expression into something more neutral.

“I said ah-” he huffs “At least one of us is getting some sleep.” The corners of his lips tick up into a wry smile. “Clearly that wasn’t entirely accurate.”

“Prob’ly. ‘S fine though.” Martin nods, throwing him a sleepy smile. “Woke up when you came in, I think.

Jon’s face falls.

“Oh, My apologies Martin I didn’t-”

Martin waves a hand lazily, stopping him in his tracks.

“Shush, ‘s fine.” He says as he rolls back towards the TV. “It’s nice to hear you come home.” He adds. Because it’s true. Martin does like hearing Jon come back, to hear him wandering around humming to himself when he doesn’t think Martin’s listening. To make all the little sounds that have so quickly become white noise. It’s easier to fall asleep when Jon is home.

“Oh,” Jon says, so softly Martin almost can’t hear. “I see.”

There’s a long silence, and Martin almost forgets that Jon is there until he hears a small sigh. And he begins to shuffle away.

“G’night Jon.” Martin says, almost as an afterthought as he begins to drift off properly into sleep.

“Goodnight, Martin.” Jon replies after a long moment. 

He’s answered by a soft snore.


	2. The one before the world (doesn't) end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply! Spoilers for MAG 117 (Testament)
> 
> Another form the 'things you said' prompts! This one was sent by @theshoutingslytherin
> 
> 18\. Things you said when you were scared

Martin finds Jon on the steps to the institute, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers as he stares out into the sparsely populated street. The rain had let up at some point, leaving the concrete damp and the air humid and cold.

There’s plenty of room to sit. It’s the damn front steps, there’d better be. But Martin still plants himself close. Close enough their shoulders could brush if either one leaned just a millimeter towards the other.

Jon's foot taps erratically against the concrete. Martin picks at something nonexistent under his fingernails.

The orange glow of the sunset behind barely dissipating rainclouds, the wet concrete and puddles reflecting headlights and streetlamps. Sitting beside the man he loves.

It could be poetic. Probably is. But it’s hard to have the heart for poetry in the face of the end of the world. 

“Is it bad, if I don’t want to go.” Jon's voice cuts the silence, raw and ragged. And so, so tired. “If I- If I don’t…” He trails off, slumping forward. Ashes drifting off the barely-smoked cigarette, tiny embers extinguishing on the pavement. 

Poetry, probably.

“No it’s not. I-its not… It’s not. You’re allowed to be scared. It’s- it’s normal. With this sort of thing.” This sort of thing, as if the end of the world creeps up every other Tuesday. As if death hangs over everyone's heads like an axe waiting for fall, choices and chances with no actual choices and no actual chances.

Fucking poetry.

Jon snorts.

“I suppose that makes sense. Though i’m not sure what ‘this sort of thing is referring to.” He says dryly, waving his cigarette vaguely in the direction of the street. “There’s quite a few things to be afraid of, really.” He adds, softly.

He turns his head to look at Martin, his face is so open. And so, so…

“I’m so _scared_ , Martin” he says softly. And it hurts, because there’s nothing he can do.

“I know.” Martin answers just as softly. “So am I, I think.”

He thinks, because there’s a certain point in a crisis where Martin forgets how to be afraid. Or no- just… how to recognize that he is afraid. It gets lost somewhere until he least expects it, and then it’s all he has for a while.

Jon peers into his face- Martin briefly considers how close their faces are. And how easy it would be to lean in and kiss him. -and then he reaches out, slowly and carefully placing a hand over Martins own. Martins breath catches in his throat.

Jon’s hand is cold, but Martin doesn’t mind. He loosens his grip on the fabric of his pants. His hands are shaking.

How long have they been doing that?

Jon’s hand is a steadying presence, a point of gentle contact. His hands do not stop shaking.

Martin hesitates, before leaning ever so slightly into Jon.

All at once Jon practically collapses into him, his entire weight against Martin’s shoulder. His cheek pressed into the fabric of Martin’s jumper. He tightens his grip on Martin’s hand, linking their fingers together and gripping like their hands are the only thing tethering him to reality. Cigarette discarded and his hand gripping the from of Martin's jumper like his life depends on every millimeter of contact between them.

Martin responds in turn by wrapping himself around Jon as best he can, placing his head over Jon’s. Letting himself push his face into his hair. He can feel Jon's breaths on his chest, shaky and uneven. He shifts, so Jon’s face is in his chest and brings up his free hand to rest on the back of Jon’s neck. Curled around each other like strange guardians. One cannot take either without taking both, or something along those lines.

They sit like that for an unknown amount of time. Awkwardly wrapped around each other, ignoring looks from passing pedestrians on their way to wherever it is people go at 6:30 at night. Home, probably. Or the pubs. Somewhere normal, Martin imagines. Somewhere safe.

The sun’s nearly set proper by the time they both pull away. Jon doesn’t disentangle their hands, and Martin hesitates just a moment longer than he’d like to admit to pull his free hand from where it had gotten tangled in that hair that had fallen from the messy bun it had been haphazardly pulled into. Though his hand lingers on Jon's shoulder.

“Martin.” Jon says, and his voice is so gentle it hurts. He’s looking up at Martin with an expression he’s never seen before, and his thumb is running gently over Martin’s own from their tangled fingers. “Can I kiss you?”

Martin has been afraid for a long time, since before the institute. Before any of this. Afraid of the various pitfalls of different varieties of love and the pain that comes with them. And now he’s looking at a man he loves, that he loves so much it _hurts_. A man who might die tomorrow. A man who asking to kiss him like the last thing he'll ever do.

Martin is rational, he’s good at knowing when something isn’t going to end well. He can see a tragedy from a mile away.

He’s also excellent at lying to himself, though.

He kisses Jon.

Jon’s lips are chapped, cold, and his breath tastes like cigarettes.

His hand finds its way once again to the back of Jon’s neck, the bun coming even more unraveled as he tangles his fingers in Jon's hair. Jon disentangles their fingers to cup both hands around the edges of Martin’s jaw. Jon sighs into his lips. And Martin wants to stay in that moment forever.

But the concrete steps are damp, and cold. It’s getting late. And people are probably looking at them funny.

He pulls away, and huffs at the small disappointed sound Jon makes in the process. Jon opens his eyes, fixing Martin a pout. Martin laughs and presses his forehead against Jon's. Jon’s eyes flutter closed again, and he sighs.

“Come back. Okay?” Martin says, softly.

“Mmh. Preferably outside of a box, I imagine? Though I think depending on the results it could be something much smaller.” Jon says dryly, Martin rolls his eyes.

“Jon” He says warningly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Jon is laughing through the apology, and Martin wants to tell him to shove it. Just a little bit, and only in the most affectionate way.

Jon opens his eyes, Meeting Martins with a soft sort of intensity.

“I’ll do my best.” 

And that’s all Martin can hope for, he supposes


	3. The one where things could get better.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cw; This takes place after the unknowing but before Jon wakes up in canon, and Martin spends a chunk of the time in a rough headspace. Also accidental compulsion.
> 
> 39\. Kissing tears from the other’s face.  
> 30\. Pulling away from a kiss, whispering words of love against each other’s lips.
> 
> (psst, this is actually imagined as a part two to the last chapter, and there is exactly one(1) reference to it)

Martin usually visits Jon on Thursday.

He used to visit every day. But the nurses began to give him looks after the first month, and it was hard to balance checking on Jon with regular life things like groceries, laundry, and work. So he’s cut back. If only to preserve his sanity.

He considered Sunday. But Sunday is the day he visits his mum, another thing that has been hard to balance with- well. Everything. Besides, it’s hard to stack that much heartbreak into one day.

The receptionist gives him a funny look. He would give himself a funny look too, he looks a wreck, he knows it. She knows him, so seeing him on a wednesday looking like he crawled out of the back end of hell. Or maybe just hasn’t done any laundry for a few days. Or showered. And got in a fight and lost.

He’s already waited too long though, he thinks. He... well. It’s his last chance, he supposes. If Jon isn’t coming back, then...

Yeah.

It’ll be for the best.

He turns the knob on the door, he knows what he’ll say. Even if he’s talking to a dead man he needs a speech apparently. And-

He bounces off of something- or someone. Who trips back a step in turn.

“Oh god- I’m so sorry-” He says almost automatically.

“No, don’t worry about it I wasn’t-”

“I wasn’t even looking where I was going a-and-”

“Really it’s fine-”

The man isn’t a nurse, Martin’s sees that much. He’s tall-ish. Handsome, certainly. Definitely no-one he’s ever met. And certainly no-one he thinks might have a reason to visit Jon. Not that Jon shouldn't get handsome visitors, but- well. He doesn’t- didn’t? Have many people outside of the institute he ever talked about. And so this guy turning up out of the blue is... well.

“Er- I’m sorry, but who... who are you?” He’s not- he’s not upset. that this random stranger is visiting Jon. It’s just weird is all. Yeah. Really weird, actually.

“Oh! I- I’m- I’m a friend of Jons.” The man says with an awkward smile, his eyes darting down to his shoes for a moment as he says it. “Er- Antonio.” He tacks the name on like an afterthought. This time his gaze flicks somewhere around Martin's shoulder, he shuffles on his feet.

Martin’s never been an expert at picking up on lies, not to say he’s bad at it. He just doesn’t find it something to worry about generally. But it’s hard not to notice when ‘Antonio’ is basically holding an imaginary blinking neon sign that says ‘I AM LYING’ with accompanying metaphorical Morse code with the same message.

He swears he’s heard that name before though.

“Oh. Er- he’s never um, talked about you?” he says carefully.

“Oh, yeah. Very old friends. Haven’t um- talked in a while.” ‘Antonio’ waves a hand awkwardly. And casting consistent looks towards the elevator.

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway! I’m uh- I’ll be going now. Visits over stuff to do y’know.” He’s already walking away as he says it, backing up for a moment and casting a quick wave before trotting away down the hall.

“Oh, y-yeah. Sure, bye?” Martin waves- though ‘Antonio’ isn’t looking. Watching as he basically runs down the hall.

“Bye!” ‘Antonio’ throws over his shoulder as he turns the corner to the elevators.

Well then.

“Huh.”

That’s not how he thought this visit was going to start.

He pauses for a moment. He’d been working off of something of a momentum. Check in with the nurse, make his speech. And be ready to say his goodbyes. But that... whatever just happened. Well, it threw him off.

He sighs.

It doesn’t matter. Weirdo visiting Jon. Seems about right, actually. If he thinks about it. Probably left a statement somewhere too, just to complete the weird weird picture.

The word ‘weird’ is starting to sound less like the a word the more he thinks about it.

He pushes the door to the hospital room open, he knows he’s imagining it. But the air feels heavier. The dread of the situation. The finality. Jon is still there, unmoving in his hospital bed. There's several machines tucked into the corner, they’d unhooked him from everything after the first month when it became clear that this is simply his state of being. That’s also about the time the nurses started telling him Jon probably wasn’t waking up.

He’s not going to wake up. Martin knows he’s not going to wake up. He’s been fooling himself for so long but now with the flesh attack he needs to do something. Or at the very least stop feeling like he’s doing nothing. But being miserable isn’t a solution either. 

Maybe there is no solution. Maybe it’s just, problems. Stuff he can’t fix or deal with and just- has to let it follow him until he dies.

He shifts, and his ankle twinges.

He’d tripped. It’s so stupid, it wasn’t even the monsters. He’d just- fallen and ended up hiding in a side room while everyone else dealt with meaty things crawling out of the floorboards. Just sat and hid and did nothing.

He’s tired of doing nothing.

Jon snores, interrupting his train of thought.

Martin smiles, god he’d forgotten Jon did that. Those little snorting snores- he’d only heard them a few times, back at the institute. It had scared the hell out of him the first time he’d been living-

Wait.

What?

Martin blinks. And watches as Jon scrunches his nose, making a small irritated noise- and turns over.

What.

His head skips, rewinds. Plays what he just saw back. Jon is breathing, how long has he been breathing? Doesn’t matter, he’s breathing which means he’s alive but what-

That weird guy. “Antonio”

He’s gone, Martin knows he’s gone. But he checks anyway. Even running all the way to the elevators. But he’s gone.

And Jon...

Jon is alive.

The thought hits his brain, and then slips away like a wet fish. There’s no guarantees. This could be a fluke, this could be a trap. It might not even be Jon. Just... something that looks like him, and snores like him. And-

A nurse taps him on the shoulder. And he realizes he’s been staring at the elevators for, well, he doesn’t know how long. Long enough to catch several concerned glances from passers-by though.

“Are you alright sir?” She asks, politely. He recognizes her, he chatted with her once when visiting Jon. She’s nice. She does the check ups a lot of the time, one of the few who’ll actually do it.

“He’s alive.” He says flatly, instead of answering. Because he’s not sure what the answer to the question is anyway.

The doctors do tests, though not many. According to them he’s fine. Fit as a fiddle aside from some fatigue and a little confusion. Which clearly makes them uncomfortable. Which he understands. A man wakes up from a three-month coma like he’d just rolled out of bed on a Monday morning? It makes him uncomfortable too, he thinks.

Basira drops off a statement. ‘Just felt like I should’ she’d said when he asked why. And neither of them felt particularly good about that answer.

After the statement he’s fine, not even fatigued. He’s alive.

He keeps looking at Martin.

Martin isn’t sure why he doesn’t want to look back.

Maybe it’s because it still feels like a trap, all of a sudden he comes back with no- no fanfare no effort. Right as rain and just... there.

Nobody else wants to deal with him right now- not after he just pulled a Lazarus like that. Jon wants to go to the institute. But Martin isn’t having it. He just woke up from a three-month coma. He’s going home. And yes- his lease apparently expired before the unknowing, so he doesn’t have a place to stay. And yes the only person willing to give him a place to stay is Martin. And Martin... well, it’s Jon. and even if it wasn’t, in the wake of losing three months of his life- and a friend. Or someone who had been a friend at a point before this all went to hell. He wouldn’t leave him alone for anything.

Martin tries to force himself to come to terms with it as they both climb into his car- this is what he wanted. He should be overjoyed. But it feels... it feels like if he looks at Jon for too long he’ll just... disappear. Or stop breathing again. Or stop being Jon.

“Good to see not too much has changed while I was gone.” Jon says wryly as he wrestles with the seatbelt. Which squeaks as he struggles to pull it out far enough to actually fasten it.

Martin just hums in response. Not trusting his voice not to betray whatever it is he’s feeling right now.

The drive to his flat is mostly quiet, aside from a few awkward attempts at conversation from Jon that all fall miserably flat. Eventually he gives up, and the rest of the drive is spent in silence. 

It’s not too far from the hospital to his flat. So before he knows it he’s leading Jon up the steps to his home.

It’s not much, he knows. Can’t afford anything truly fancy when carrying medical bills around. But it’s nice, homey. He hopes.

“Home sweet home.” He says, dropping his keys on the table by the door and hoping he sounds cheery. Because he doesn’t know what else to be right now. He’s figured out what emotion he’s feeling, though he’s not sure it counts as an emotion honestly.

Numb. 

Stupid, isn’t it? 

“The bathrooms down the hall- I think your stuff’s all in storage at the moment,” his voice wobbles at that, he swallows “so we’ll have to go get that soon. You can help yourself to anything in the fridge-” He’s stopped by a hand on his wrist. Familiar, too-thin, and cool.

“Martin.” Jon says. “Did I... _did I do something to upset you_?” It’s a question, small and helpless. Martin just wants to brush it off, he’s fine. He just needs time-

“You died, Jon.” He says instead. The words coming out unbidden, thougtless.

“I- I came back.” He tightens his grip on Martins wrist for a moment before loosening “In one piece even. I believe that was a part of our agreement” There’s a note of teasing in that last part, Martin wishes it was funny.

“I said come back _safe_ Jon, not ‘ _come back from the dead_ ’” He says it sharper than he intended. Jon's hand drops from his wrist.

“Do you not... Are you not glad I’m back?” He sounds- sad. Of course he sounds sad Martin basically just said he wished he'd _died._

“Of course I’m glad your back, I just-”

“ _Then what’s wrong_?” The words are just- they’re just words. But Martin feels something pull in his chest.

Martin looks at Jon for the first time since the hospital.

“I’m scared, Jon! I You were dead for three months, Y-you didn’t even have a heartbeat and I-” He brings a hand upland runs it through his hair, Jon doesn’t need to hear this. He should be resting not listening to Martin dump his issues like this- “you were dead and I was the only one left. A-and yeah you came back, but- god what even is this! You’re just, fine. A-and I’m- I don’t want you to _not_ be fine but I- I can’t even prove to myself that you’re _real_ and not- I-I don’t-” He forces himself to stop. clamping his jaw shut around the words that suddenly feel like they’re pushing at the back of his throat like bile. Jon stares back at him, eyes wide and confused and hurt. He’s disheveled and still wearing the pajamas Martin had brought for him in the first week. Small and tired and maybe even real. He looks at Jon until he can’t because his vision begins to blur and his eyes begin to burn.

“Martin, I- I’m- I’m sorry I-” Jon's blurry form moves, and Martin shuts his eyes. Shaking his head. He should be the one apologizing, Jon didn’t need to hear that and he just- threw it at him.

“I’m-” Martin tries to apologize, but it comes out as little more than a croak. Cool hands cup his cheeks, and he opens his eyes. Jon's face is closer now, eyes scanning desperately over Martin's face.

“I- I’m not- I don’t know what I am but I’m- I-I’m me. I-I promise, I don’t know how to prove it to you but I-” Jon starts, and Martin can see his lips move to form the words-

Jon is here, he’s alive. He’s awake. His hands are on Martin's cheeks and he’s running his thumb through the tear tracks, fumbling over awkward reassurances. and looking so, so earnest. Hell, he made a joke about a conversation nobody else heard. Something just between the two of them, nobody else. And to fear entities, maybe that doesn’t matter. But for now, with Jon so close and acting so perfectly _im_ perfectly Jon. Martin can let- no. _Make_ himself believe. Jon’s not dead, it’s not a trap. Not right now, not yet. Just for right now, Martin isn’t alone anymore.

It doesn’t take much to lean forward, pressing their lips together into a messy kiss. Jon makes a small, cut-off sound of surprise before melting into it, letting a hand move to the back of Martin's hair and the other fall to his shoulder. Martin's arms wrapping around Jon's waist.

His lips are chapped. And he holds Martin like he never wants to let go.

Eventually they have to part for air. Martin doesn’t open his eyes, but he can feel Jon's breath on his face, and his hand in his hair and it’s all just another reminder he’s alive. And so wonderfully real.

He feels Jon move after a moment, using the hand he’s left on the back of Martin's head to guide him down. Pressing now-warm lips to the wet patches on his cheeks. Martin tries to laugh, he’s not sure why. It all just seems a little absurd all of a sudden. but it comes out as sort of a wet hiccup. Prompting Jon to tilt his head, and lock their lips together again.

Martin doesn’t know how long they stand in his entryway, trading kisses and just... being in each other's arms. But it’s long enough he’s run out of tears for Jon to try to kiss away, and the strange wired feeling has faded. Leaving him tired and heavy and in desperate need of a lie-down.

He pulls back, though not far. He can still feel Jon's lips against his as he speaks.

“Please don’t die again.” He says softly.

Jon sighs, pressing a small, chaste kiss against his lips.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and Martin can feel the words as Jon's mouth brushes his as much as he hears them. And then he kisses Martin again, like he’s trying to seal the words there with his lips.

And, Martin supposes that promise was enough last time. It might be more than enough for him now.


	4. The one with alcohol and worms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d stumbled on the bottle, shoved in a cupboard in the breakroom. Then they’d stumbled on the worms. Somewhere on the counter by the fridge. Then the worms were a shriveled pile of filth and foam. And Jon said the words ‘Fuck it’ out loud- prompting a loud disbelieving laugh from Martin -opened the bottle, taken a large swig, and offered it to Martin. And Martin, in a fit of madness. Had taken it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3\. A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.
> 
> Warning; 98% of this is just them being hammered as hell, so alcohol cw for the whole chapter!

They’re both drunk, and this is probably all a terrible idea.

It’s not technically either of their faults. If you’re arguing semantics, Tim is the one who decided to continue the birthdays-in-the-archives tradition by celebrating ‘Jonny magnet’s’ centennial something or other. Really it was more an excuse to bring a bottle of wine into the archives- which didn’t end up getting drunk in the end because Jon had made it clear that while employee birthdays were a somewhat acceptable occasion for a small glass. In no way would he condone making up holidays for the purposes of drinking on the job.

It wasn’t actually to celebrate Jonah magnus of course, nobody actually believed that particular excuse. Things had been so tense with Prentiss looming and Martin living in the archives, Martin honestly thinks he was just trying to lighten the mood.

It did sort-of work though. Mostly because he brought cookies on top of the wine, which Jon could hardly say no to as long as they didn’t get them on the files- and convinced Jon to let them play music over the course of the workday. Which, in comparison to alcohol on the clock was minor enough for Jon to simply ignore. 

Which, now that Martin thinks about it, might have been the point.

But, regardless of the purpose. There was a rather large bottle of wine left in the archives. And Martin didn’t intend to drink it, not in a million years. Tannins and all that. And he certainly never dreamed Jon would touch it. But...

He had a nightmare, the usual fare. Prentiss, worms, trapped-with-no-escape eating peaches. And went for a nighttime wander to clear his head. Extinguisher in hand of course, just in case. 

The office light was still on, and in investigating on the assumption he’d simply forgotten to turn it out Martin stumbled on Jon still hard at work at... three o-clock in the morning. 

A new record for sure.

Jon had been annoyed at first at the inturruption. And then after some explanation for why he was wandering around the archives in the wee hours in his underpants... sympathetic. A new side to him that still didn’t hesitate to make Martin's incredibly traitorous heart skip in his chest. 

Jon offered to walk with him in the end, if only for both of their peace of mind. Once Martin put on some trousers of course.

It was... nice-ish? To walk with Jon. He didn’t talk much, per-se. But... Martin appreciated the company, and the little conversation they did manage wasn’t entirely unpleasant. But then again that might just be that it’s Jon. And Martin has terrible taste.

They’d stumbled on the bottle, shoved in a cupboard in the breakroom. Then they’d stumbled on the worms. Somewhere on the counter by the fridge. Then the worms were a shriveled pile of filth and foam. And Jon said the words ‘Fuck it’ out loud- prompting a loud disbelieving laugh from Martin -opened the bottle, taken a large swig, and offered it to Martin. And Martin, in a fit of madness. Had taken it.

They’d moved to document storage, away from the worm carcasses. Found a good spot on the floor to empty the bottle between the two of them. And they were just... talking. Really talking. And getting along quite well, actually. Better and better as the bottle drained honestly.

Before now he’d caught a few glimpses of Jon when he’s not shuffling around as ‘mister-archivist-whos-going-to-staple-these-ancient-documents-no-i-will-not-take-criticism-get-back-to-work’. Particularly after Prentiss. And he’s seen more since, in the little moments after everyone else has gone home. Little jokes, laughter. A wry complaint about the archives themselves. Just... stuff.

But now he’s laughing, loud and openly at something Martin’s said. Martin’s laughing too, and his stomach hurts from it. He can’t even quite tell what they’re laughing about, he said something funny he knows but he’s lost the thread of the joke honestly- but he’s leaning into Jon's side and can feel Jon's hand on his bicep as he tries to keep himself upright.

“Good lord Martin,” he says, and Martin can hear the effort to keep his voice steady through the wine “If Elias heard you say that- I think he’d have a heart attack on the spot”

Martin snorts. Ah, that was it.

“Look, if he wanted to worry less about sources of- of  _ ignition _ in the archives. He would have- he- he would have put in the  _ bloody _ CO2 by now” He waves an imaginary lighter in the air “It’s just- it’s um- it’s just  _ motivation. _ To get us all not killed by a- a bloody  _ worm woman _ .”

Jon starts laughing again. Loud and raucous. Martin’s not sure he even laughs like that sober. He laughs with him, too. And somehow finds himself pressed even closer into Jon as they both collapse in on their own laughter.

And then the laughter dies down, leaving them both breathless and giggling.

Jon looks up at him, he’s smiling and Martin can feel his own woozy grin prying at his cheeks. He’s almost dizzy from laughing- actually that’s probably the alcohol. He’s never had a good tolerance for it. He’s definitely drunk.

It takes him a moment to notice they’re both staring, neither of them have said anything. They’re just... looking at each other. It’s quite funny actually, grinning like idiots over absolutely nothing.

Martin giggles. It comes out somewhere between a snort and a hiccup. Jons head tilts at the noise almost imperceptibly. The smile fading ever so slightly.

There’s a pause.

Jon opens his mouth to speak.

“Kiss me.” He says, breaking the silence. voice hoarse and out of breath from laughter. 

Martin blinks, the alcohol weighing down any cognitive function that might be able to put those two words together with Jonathan sims voice. In the end, he loses out to trying to understand it at all. Not that he actually minds either way. 

Jon has leaned ever so slightly closer, and he’s looking at Martin with a strange intensity that his hazy mind isn’t sure what to do with. If he was sober, he probably would have already died of a heart attack. Might have already, might be in heaven. Probably not though, heaven doesn’t have worms.

They’re both drunk, and this is probably a terrible idea. And if Martin were sober he would say as much, probably shuffle Jon off to sleep it off until he’s back in his right mind. 

But he’s not, he’s drunk. And quite sleep deprived. And would actually like nothing more than to be kissing Jonathan sims.

So he obliges Jon’s request, or tries to.

He misses the mark somewhat, hitting the upper edge of Jon's lips with his own. Jon snorts, and Martin laughs. And then Jon tilts his head up to Meet Martin's lips properly.

It only lasts a moment. Because Jon's nose bumps into Martins, and Martin starts to giggle again, and can’t seem to stop. And then Jon starts to laugh, pulling back and burying his face in Martin's shoulder. Martin wraps an arm around him in turn, then both arms. Because the room begins to spin again and he worries he’ll fall the rest of the way to the floor and take Jon with him. And they laugh until they’re breathless again.

Martin leans down and buries his face in Jon's neck. He’s warm, and smells like someone who works in an archive. Which means he smells like he’s been sitting in a basement hunched over documents half his age with a lamp right on his neck. So sweat, that weird old paper smell, and dust. Which might just be from when he laid down on the floor earlier, Jon doesn’t sit  _ that  _ still when he’s working. Unless that’s just what people in archives smell like and Martin smells like dust too, he’s in the archives a lot more than Jon is really. So he’d smell dustier. What  _ does _ he smell like, actually?

He considers asking when feels something move against his shoulder. And then warm lips brush his jaw for just a moment before Jon's head falls back, nestling once again into his shoulder. He forgets what he was going to ask.

There’s a long moment, then he turns his head slightly, pressing a small soft kiss to Jon's collar in turn. Jon hums.

Tomorrow, he’s probably going to face the consequences of this interaction. And probably need to ask Jon, well.  _ Why _ , for one thing. and perhaps what the hell just happened actually. But... for the time being it’s just. Nice.

Eventually they end up on the floor, though Martin isn’t sure how. Jon's head still tucked into his shoulder, laying on top of his arm that’s wrapped around bony shoulders. Legs tangled up around each other.

They fall asleep like that. Tangled up on the floor, an empty wine bottle sitting on the floor nearby. Jon, in his work clothes. Martin in his pajama pants. Both primed and ready for a hangover in the morning. And somehow comfortable all the same.

Tim’s never going to let them hear the end of this.

**Author's Note:**

> Psst, I do prompts sometimes over at https://misterghostfrog.tumblr.com/


End file.
